“It was over in a matter of minutes. The spire of the church was gone. I could see no buildings, just the black smoke rising. I’d been sitting there with my back against the tree, the taste of bread and cheese and wine in my mouth, watching quietly while God knows how many people died before my eyes. I know I tried to pray for those poor souls. But my prayers were mechanical, dry as dust.
“I could not comprehend what I’d seen. The peaceful countryside had been struck by violence and death just a few miles away, but the breeze still whispered through my little grove of trees. Birds sang, insects hummed. Nothing had touched my hill. That was the war I saw, my friends. The rest, I just heard about.”
Father Samozvanyetz lowered his head and reached for the glass of water to his right. He held it in his hand, regarding it for a moment before drinking from it.
“The man I see in my memory is young, very young,” he said quietly. “I see him now, this brash young priest marching bravely toward the East, his pack slung over his shoulder, his heart full of innocent arrogance. He seems almost a stranger. Father Beck has reminded me that I shouldn’t judge him too harshly.
“But I am rambling. I see that you want me to get on with my story, isn’t that right? How did this crazy young priest get across the Russian border? Well, I can’t take credit for any brilliant maneuver. As it turned out, I did not cross the Russian border. The Russian border crossed me.”
Father Beck stood up. “I think it’s time for a break,” he said. “There are more toilets upstairs, if anybody needs one.”
C H A P T E R • 9
“Session 2,” Brother Krause wrote in his fresh notebook and began to record what he heard in shorthand.
“It was several days after I witnessed the bombing of the village. Almost a week, I think,” said Father Samozvanyetz when the group in the retreat house reassembled.
“I had passed well to the south of Brest-Litovsk which I assumed would be a military target. I didn’t want to be captured by the Germans, so I stayed far away from urban areas and kept to the dirt roads that headed east through the countryside.
“I began encountering more and more people heading to the West with household goods piled into carts and wagons. These refugees had not seen any Russian troops, but they were afraid that the Red Army was about to occupy this part of Poland. They had just packed up and headed west, one old man told me, because they feared Stalin more than they feared Hitler. He thought I was crazy to be heading east. He became so excited that he shouted at me and called me a fool before turning away in disgust. I was amused by his outburst, but he did make me more cautious.
“Fear had caused people to abandon their ancestral homes and villages. Any stranger heading upstream against the current toward certain death, as they saw it, would certainly be the subject of speculation among the refugees and I certainly didn’t want that. I wanted to become inconspicuous. So, from then on, when I saw people approaching from the east, I sat down by the side of the road and pretended to be resting. I always sat facing west.
“How clever I felt as people passed by with hardly a glance at this straggler they had overtaken on the road. Little did they know that I had just come from where they were going. I was so pleased that they never suspected that I was on my way to where they had been.
“I soon found out how clever I really was. What I next ran into was the Red Army.”
Father Samozvanyetz shook his head. “Have you ever seen an army on the move? It’s an impressive sight, let me tell you. I became aware of the Red Army before I saw it.
“The ground did not tremble. That wasn’t the sensation. Just a murmuring in the air at first, low and deep, slowly increasing in power like some force of nature. I could see only open fields and a few farm buildings here and there, but no people.
“Everything around me had fallen silent. The birds had stopped singing. Even the insects were still. There was just this ominous undertone, this growing presence. Something awesome like a tidal wave or an avalanche was steadily approaching.
“A few yards up the road, off to the left, there was a small patch of woods. I ran there, dropped my haversack and climbed a tree to look out ahead across the rolling countryside.
“Russia was moving towards me! All of it! All of Russia, it seemed. An ocean of men and machines flooded the roads and the fields, an enormous tidal wave that flowed toward me from the eastern horizon and stretched to the north and to the south as far as I could see. Columns of trucks and cannons in advance of a mass of humanity. I couldn’t discern individual soldiers or vehicles, just the relentlessly approaching deluge.
“How much time did I have until the Red Army engulfed me? The hill in front of me partially blocked my view. I couldn’t see what was moving up the road I was on. I suddenly realized that I was in a terrible spot. What better hiding place for a lookout or a sniper, up there in the branches of a tree? I clambered down as quickly as I could.
“Here I was, the only civilian within miles. A civilian with one too many identities. The plan to transform myself into a Russian had seemed foolproof in Rome. Now it was obviously absurd. What would a Russian be doing in Poland at this time and in this place? Should I try to make the Russian identity papers work? No, that would take a quickly improvised, masterful lie. And if I couldn’t carry it off, I would be taken for a spy and shot on the spot.
“Should I continue to be the Polish merchant seaman? The Poles had taken me for a Pole. But how good were the Polish identity papers? No one had examined them as closely as the Russians would.
“Better to have no papers at all. I could claim that I had lost everything when my village was bombed. I was lucky to have escaped with my life. All I cared about now was getting revenge on the Germans. That seemed plausible enough. Would it stand up to intense investigation? I would just have to take my chances. But time was running out. The Red Army was advancing.
“A small creek ran through the woods. I built a small fire on its bank and burned my Polish and Russian money, my forged documents, my spare socks and underwear, even my haversack. I pushed the ashes into the water and watched all of it drift downstream. My razor, my pocketknife, the buckles of my haversack, all the things that wouldn’t burn I threw as far as I could into the underbrush.
“Then I ran out of the woods as fast as I could to get back onto the road. Better to meet the Red Army out in the open. The Russian soldiers would see an unarmed civilian who posed no threat.
“Once I reached the road, I stopped running and resumed walking at a slow, steady pace. By the time I saw the first soldiers approaching, I was breathing normally.
“There were three of them coming over the rise. They pointed their rifles at me. I threw up my hands and froze. They kept me standing there with my hands in the air until the main body of troops arrived.
“The Red Army seemed less impressive at close range. What I encountered was a column of infantry. No tanks, no trucks, no big guns. Just a company of open-faced men and boys led by two officers on horseback.
“The soldiers’ khaki uniforms were dark with sweat. The packs on their backs looked heavy. Several horse-drawn wagons brought up the rear. I found out later they carried the company’s food, tents and ammunition. Impedimenta, Caesar called it.
“Strange how the mind works in times of stress. I actually thought about Caesar and that infantry soldiering had not changed much since his time. But I digress.
“The two officers wore red epaulets and peaked caps. One was every inch the military man. He turned in his saddle and told his soldiers that they could break ranks and rest for a few moments. He seemed calm and at ease.
“The other officer seemed like a schoolteacher who had been plucked from his classroom without warning and dropped on top of a horse. He was as awkward and uncomfortable as his brother officer was strong and confident. A strange pair.
“Two soldiers searched me and found no weapon. They reported that to their captain. The two officers walked their horses up to where I stood
. The sturdy officer half-saluted and told me, in Polish, that I could lower my arms. I thanked him in Russian and said I understood his language. He seemed relieved.
“The other officer, the slender one, said nothing, but he listened attentively while I told my story in ungrammatical Russian. Both nodded in sympathy when I described the bombing of my village. Fortunately, I had learned the name of the place I saw destroyed.
“The officer with the military bearing wanted to know what he could expect to find on the road ahead. Not much, I told him. He seemed disappointed that I had seen no Polish troops in the countryside. No Germans, either. Only those three airplanes.
“The schoolteacher spoke up. ‘Too bad you lost your papers,’ he said. ‘That always causes difficulties. But there will be some people coming along who will sort all that out. Until then, you will stay with us.’
“The other officer assured me that I was safe now. ‘We will be pitching camp up ahead. You will spend the night with us and share our food.’ He turned to the two soldiers who had searched me. ‘Take care of him,’ the officer told them. ‘He’s a good fellow who’s had a run of bad luck.’ True enough. I now found myself marching back west with the Red Army.
“The soldiers I walked with were youngsters, friendly and boisterous. They wore their caps at jaunty angles and talked loudly. The air was full of jokes, wise-cracks and complaints about the packs on their backs. They had been on the march for several days now, spoiling for their first fight. But, so far, there had been no opposition, no chance for a boy to test his courage.
“An hour before sunset, the infantry company left the road and moved into a field beside a small stream. Soldiers pulled tents from the wagons and set them up. Others busied themselves preparing the evening meal. I helped dig a latrine.
“After the simple evening meal, I was given a blanket and shown the tent where I was to sleep that night. So far, so good, I thought.
“Around dawn, I awoke to the roaring and clanging of a column of tanks and trucks moving past our camp. Bringing up the rear were two automobiles and a couple of small vans. They stopped and several officers got out.
“Maps were spread out on the hood of one of the cars. The officers, ours included, gathered around. When the conference ended, soldiers started setting up large field tents. Our company had been ordered to stay where it was for a while.
“The young officer who looked like a schoolteacher stood talking to one of the visiting officers, a short, older man with a large stomach. Another schoolteacher or a shopkeeper, I thought. They were deeply involved in their discussion, standing apart from the war, talking about more serious business.
“About an hour later, a soldier took me to one of the large field tents. Once inside, I saw that it was being used as an office as well as a place to sleep. Two cots were set up along one side of the tent, but most of the space was taken up by a folding table and several folding chairs. The schoolteacher and the shopkeeper greeted me courteously and addressed me by my false Polish name.
“The younger officer was a politruk, a political officer, assigned to the infantry company by the Communist Party to make sure the regular army officers performed their duties in accordance with correct Party principles.
“He was quite open in explaining this, although he did not use the word politruk, a slang word I learned only later. He told me that I was in luck. His superior officer had time to deal with my problem.
“The older man offered me a cigarette, then leaned back in his chair. How suddenly catastrophe can turn a man’s life upside down, he remarked. He supposed he would hear more tales like mine as the Red Army encountered more refugees like me fleeing from the Germans.
“The Germans were not to be trusted, he said. That was the true reason the Red Army had crossed the Polish border. Sooner or later, he said, Hitler would look east and have to be stopped. Patriotic Poles, like me, might wish to join that fight.
“I agreed enthusiastically.
“The older officer told me I was fortunate. He handed me a printed form to read. It was written in Polish, very short, less than a page of type. There was a space to print my name, which I did.
“I can’t remember the exact words, but the document stated that the petitioner sought entry to the Soviet Union where he intended to find the opportunity to work in his chosen profession. To this end, I sought the assistance of the Red Army and the Communist Party whose representatives I had approached, of my own free will, at this place and on this date.
“I could hardly believe what I was reading. The older officer leaned forward across the table. If the document correctly expressed my intentions, he would be pleased to witness my signature and I could be on my way to the Soviet Union within the hour.
“Well, of course, I signed the paper. My problem of crossing the Russian border had been solved by the Red Army itself.
“The shopkeeper countersigned the document and handed it to the schoolteacher. Then he got up from his desk.
“‘So that is done,’ he said. ‘You can leave for Moscow right now, if you are ready.’
“I told him I was. ‘Having lost everything,’ I said with a laugh, ‘I have nothing to pack.’
“The younger officer opened the tent flap and waved me outside with a smile. The three of us walked to the road where the vehicles were parked. The last in line was a small closed van, something like a delivery truck.
“The young officer opened the rear doors. ‘It is not the most comfortable vehicle,’ he said, ‘but it is the best we have to offer. It will take you to a place where you can board a train.’
“I asked him if I would have trouble getting on the train. I had no papers, just the one I signed. Shouldn’t I be carrying that paper with me?
“They both laughed at that. The young officer polished his spectacles. ‘That document goes into your file,’ the older one said. ‘It is evidence, you see. Of espionage or worse. I only wish all such evidence was so easy to obtain.’
“‘Oh, come now!’ I cried. ‘You can’t be serious about this! I am not a spy! If you have any more questions, I’ll try to answer them to your satisfaction!’
“I appealed to the younger officer, but he was no longer a kindly schoolteacher. His eyes had turned cold and he spoke through clenched teeth.
“He told me to just get in the truck. ‘Quickly, now!’
“I saw his right hand move to the butt of the pistol on his hip.
“‘Get in the truck,’ he said, ‘you fucking priest!’”
∗ ∗ ∗
“Good Lord!” said Father Beck. “They knew!”
“Oh, yes,” sighed Father Samozvanyetz. “They knew. And that staggered me. My knees buckled. I was barely able to hoist myself up into the van. I crawled in a ways, all crouched down, and looked back. The older one was grinning. ‘Have a pleasant journey, priest!’ he said. The younger one spat at me and slammed the van doors shut.
“There were no windows in the back of the van. I was alone in the darkness, holding on for dear life as we lurched along rough roads to some unknown destination.”
Father Samozvanyetz stood up and paced slowly back and forth across the room.
“God forgive me,” he said, “but suspicion darkened my mind and my soul. The Russians had known I was coming and had been waiting for me. But how was that possible? I had never planned to be on that road. I had happened upon that infantry company by chance. How could they have known I was coming?
“I tried to recall the people I encountered since leaving Rome. I scrutinized them with hatred and distrust! Saw their faces and despised them: the people in the villages who’d given me shelter, the men at the hotel in Warsaw, the clerk who assigned me my room, the sexton at the church, the customs inspector with the gold tooth who asked me to pray for Poland, the passport clerks, the train conductors, my fellow passengers, the household staff at the Russicum, even my Jesuit classmates! Perhaps some Jesuit had been captured and broken by the NKVD. Could that be it?
; “The van stopped. The doors were flung open. I was dragged out into blinding sunlight, marched across a rail yard and thrown into an empty boxcar with a score of other unfortunates. Some of them tried to talk to me, but I shrank away and huddled in a corner. I sank deeper into myself, trying to identify my Judas Iscariot. Someone had betrayed me. Someone had told the NKVD that I was coming. Worst of all, someone had interfered with God’s plan!”
Father Samozvanyetz pressed his forehead into the palm of his right hand.
“Such arrogance! As if I had the slightest inkling of God’s plan!”
After a moment, he returned to his place at the table and sat down.
“Alex Samozvanyetz, Apostle to the Russians, cowered in that filthy boxcar, betrayed and forestalled, unmindful of the fear and suffering of those others riding to their own fates, poor souls to whom he might have provided some solace, some comfort. He could have served them as a priest, right then and there.
“The train rumbled on. But Alex Samozvanyetz, the Savior of Russia, could only see the thwarting of his holy mission. He couldn’t see the opportunity to serve God so close at hand. No, he huddled in the darkness, a wounded beast, paralyzed with fear and self-pity.
“It was night when the train stopped and soldiers slammed back the boxcar doors. I climbed down and stood with the rest. We were in a railroad yard illuminated by spotlights on towers. Soldiers moved about, bells rang, steam engines shrieked, heavy machinery crashed and clanged all about us. The air was cold and damp. I was stiff from the long train ride and chilled to the bone. I head a voice call out: ‘Samozvanyetz!’ I couldn’t believe my ears!
“Suddenly there was a face close to mine and a peaked officer’s cap. ‘You are Samozvanyetz.’
“It was not a question. It was a matter-of-fact statement. What could I say? I said, ‘Yes.’
“Two armed guards marched me across the railroad tracks to another van. This van was black. The soldiers pushed me inside. The door slammed shut behind me. I stuck my fingers through the holes in the fence-like partitions and clung there.
Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy Page 9